


Dancing in the Dark

by lurking_in_the_background



Series: The Dannsair [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Not at all happy, Psychological Trauma, Slavery, poor baby, someone needs to hug him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurking_in_the_background/pseuds/lurking_in_the_background
Summary: Below the earth, the Dannsair dances for the Goblin King. He is pretty and smiles and behaves flawlessly. He appears to thrive in the underground world.But in the darkness, all alone, the Dannsair mourns what he has lost, and what he has become.
Series: The Dannsair [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570828
Kudos: 15





	Dancing in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> If you expected happiness, you’re in the wrong place. I admit it is 1000% my intention to make you cry. I apologize in advance.

It has been so long since anyone called the Dannsair by his name. He isn’t even sure _he_ remembers that fact, that tiny piece of him that is so essential to his being.

The goblins call him ‘Dannsair’, if they’re feeling pleasant, or ‘Pretty Dancer’. These they reserve for when his master, their King is present. Otherwise, they call him ‘Little Dollie’, and laugh, since he is like a wind-up doll for their King; he dances when commanded, and is dressed up and fawned over otherwise.

When they felt particularly nasty, or when he had somehow managed to offend one, they called him a slut, or a whore.

It made him cry, when he was alone, because he was not a slut, nor was he a whore; he had been forced all those times before. His master had not violated him, and asked him first before he was taken.

He never denied his master, never, except when he was asked to do _that_.

His master always managed to convince him. It usually hurt. At least he was gentle, afterwards.

Usually, his master simply held him on his lap, or gave him soft little kisses on his nose and lips, or his hair and eyelids. Sometimes his master’s hand would pinch his arse playfully. Usually, it was just little kisses on his fingers; long, pale, white fingers engulfed in big, rough, scaled, green ones, and brushed against his master's lips. His master had other slaves rub his skin with sweet-smelling oils every day, to keep it nice and soft, and when there was not enough time to rub his entire body, the Dannsair rubbed only his fingers and toes.

His master liked to kiss his toes, too. He was told it was because they were tiny and soft. “You have such sensitive little toes,” his master had explained, tickling the pad of his smallest toe. “And you have five of them! All so soft and cute.” The Dannsair has to admit, his toes were much different from goblin toes; those were big, rough, and scaly, tipped with wicked talons, and there were only three on each foot, like a reptile’s. Whereas he had small, pale toes, soft and slightly rounded, much like a human’s, with five on each foot.

He had a nice life, he supposed; it was infinitely better than what most slaves experienced at the hands of the goblins. He had good, tasty food that he could eat from his master’s own hand, clean, clear water to drink (sometimes wine, if his master felt he deserved it), nice clothes to wear, even if they didn’t cover him well; even a room all to himself. The only one allowed into his room without his permission was his master. And his master didn’t hit him overmuch. Only when he _really_ deserved it. Which was rarely. He learned quickly; his master’s punishments were not gentle.

He smiled and danced and followed every command he was given, all day and sometimes into the night. He was the perfect slave, well-behaved and pretty.

And yet, when he retired to his own room, away from prying eyes, from eager hands, from compliments that were not directed at him but to his master, he would clean himself up, and wonder: was this what he would do for the rest of his life? Was he destined to dance his life away for the pleasure of his master, and then thrown away when he was no longer interesting?

He thought so.

Every night, he would come back to his quiet room, feet aching, sometimes bloody, from dancing, his entire body screaming in pain, feeling empty. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to enjoy being a slave. He didn’t, really. But it felt like that was all he had ever known. He remembered little about Before. The sun was a distant memory, its warmth forgotten. He barely remembered the color of the trees, the sky, the feeling of grass between his toes. He didn’t remember his own name.

Now, all he knew was After: the warmth of his master, and the light of the torches that lined the passageways of his master’s kingdom. He knew the dull grey of stone, the black of the dark, the cold, unforgiving surface of stone floors beneath his feet. Now, he was the Dannsair. He is Pretty Dancer. Little Dollie.

He is a slut, and he is a whore. He believes them. 

Alone in his little room, huddled in his bed, the Dannsair pulls the wool blanket around him, trying to hold onto the warmth that has left him. He tries to remember anything about Before. But there is nothing.

Alone in the dark, the Dannsair cries, disgusted with what he has become, and yet content with what he is.

Because there is only After, now, and that is all he has.

**Author's Note:**

> Told you.


End file.
